


Side Effects

by chucksauce



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (barely), I swear, M/M, Oral Sex, Sex Pollen, at one point it looks slightly dub-con, but it's not, so much UST, wet dreams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-22 00:04:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/906532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucksauce/pseuds/chucksauce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“What’s not foolproof about it?” John asked, now forgetting his anger. “Pollen creates allergic reaction, in this case, makes the victim want to shag someone to death--literally, mind you--and then they die when they reach the big finale.”</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>What happens in a sex-pollen fic when the side-effects are lethal?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Side Effects

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [hollowforest](http://archiveofourown.org/users/hollowforest) for macro beta and [Mazarin221b](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mazarin221b) for incredibly helpful line edits and insightful commentary.

“But what do any of the victims have in common?” Sherlock drummed his fingers in rapid succession across his lower lip, his mind racing.

John stood silently to the side, tucked out of the way with Lestrade as they watched Sherlock’s brain do the heavy lifting, pointedly staring at him. It was far easier than staring at the victims, who were tangled together naked, having apparently died of heart attacks mid-coitus.

“Tox screen on the others all came back positive for an unknown substance--it’ll probably show up here too,” John offered, and then cleared his throat. He shifted his weight, clasping his hands behind his back in parade rest.

Sherlock nodded silently, clearly lost in thought. His eyes were glazed over, but he blinked rapidly to come back to the here-and-now, and stood up quickly enough that any mere mortal would have had a thorough rush of blood to the head. If he was dizzy, John couldn’t tell.

He pulled his phone from his coat pocket as he exited the room, John and Lestrade close behind.

“D’you have anything for me?” Lestrade asked, pulling the nitrile gloves from his hands with a snap.

John followed suit as Sherlock frowned in thought, gearing up for a monologue. “So far all of the victims run in similar but not necessarily overlapping social circles: the first victim was the C.E.O. of a pharmaceutical company, the second and third were clinical pharmacologists. The fourth was the wife of a very successful doctor. This couple were dedicated philanthropists. The only outlier would be the fourth case--he was an out-of-work actor.” He paused a moment, clearly recalling something. “But--his shoes did say waitstaff--check the victims’ social calendars. I’ms sure they were all gathered together recently. Let me know what you find.”

With that Sherlock turned on his heel and exited the townhouse. John smiled his goodbye to Lestrade and followed him, lest he get left to find his own cab.

Luckily the cab was only just rolling to a stop at the kerb by the time John reached Sherlock’s side, and they climbed in.

Once settled, John drew a breath to say, “221B Baker Street, please,” when Sherlock spoke first, giving a completely unfamiliar address.

The cabbie nodded and pulled into traffic, and John waited a beat before raising his eyebrow in silent question.

Sherlock blinked once slowly in a near-still nod, lifting a finger from where his hands were folded in his lap, as if to say, _“I’ll explain when we get there.”_

So John withheld his question and turned to look out of the window. Night-time London rushed past them in a swirl of color and light, and John was left with his thoughts as Sherlock tapped intently at his phone.

Each victim had been found naked, and from the state of things, the cause of death had been an orgasm--well, technically, cardiac arrest, but it was clear that the orgasm might have been a contributing factor there.

And the actor--poor guy had been in his apartment alone. He’d died mid-wank, his hand firmly wrapped around the base of his no-longer erect penis.

 _What an awful way to be found_ , John thought. He could still see the poor bloke, stretched naked on his duvet. He shuddered and pushed the thought away.

“Almost there, John,” came Sherlock’s low, rumbling murmur in his ear, and John had to fight to maintain his composure. Between being startled from his grim reverie and having Sherlock’s voice like a purr in his ear--well. John was certain any sane sexual being would be in his current predicament.

Instead he sniffed in once quickly and nodded, half-afraid to turn his head, just in case Sherlock was still leaned in close. John didn’t know how Sherlock had been thus far unable to miss the bright, blinking trail of deductions that lead straight to the conclusion that John fancied the hell out of him. Maybe he’d already found that trail, and in true Sherlockian fashion, had decided to ignore it for whatever reason.

But before he could have time to panic over a further response, the cab slowed, and pulled over to a kerb. John turned to see Sherlock lean forward and say to the cabbie, “Keep the meter on. If we’re not back in an hour, call the police.”

The cabbie, a middle-aged bloke with a bad combover, raised a suspicious eyebrow but nodded. “Right, mate.”

As they climbed out, John saw that they were in a residential section with ridiculously posh townhouses of the same ilk as the philanthropists’. The majority of the houses were dark, their inhabitants having gone to bed at a reasonable hour. It was half-past midnight, after all.

“Seems like a bad time of day for a bit of B and E,” John said, frowning thoughtfully.

Sherlock tossed him a half-smirk as he strode past, and John shook his head, smiling. They went down three blocks toward a house whose inhabitants were, by the sounds of things, hosting a small party. The inner lights blazed bright in contrast with the street light half a block away and the black windows of the nearly all the neighbors. Muffled voices and laughter carried on the still night air.

Sherlock caught John’s sleeve, tugging him down a narrow alley between two of the houses. He pulled a wad of something from his pocket and stuffed it into John’s hand, along with a pen knife. John recognized the spongy give of nitrile gloves instantly, and pocketed it.

“Be sure to wear a pair, and use the rest as sample containers. You’ll know when to duck out.”

“But what am I--?”

“We are about to have a particular botanist by the name of Dr. Quercus give us a potentially vital piece of evidence in the case. Just follow my lead, and it will all become clear.”

 

An hour and a half later, John and Sherlock were safely returned to Baker Street, their potential evidence neatly sectioned into gloves that were tied off like birthday balloons, stashed in John’s pockets.

Despite the obligatory glass of champagne he’d had accepted from the party, and the fact that he had a shift at surgery in about four hours, John wasn’t ready for bed. So when Sherlock dipped his hands into John’s coat pockets without warning and then all-but dashed into the kitchen to begin running tests, John allowed the intrusion without much comment and then put the kettle on. It was odd, though. Usually by now he’d be grumbling and yawning, fussing at Sherlock for reaching into his pockets like that, but he was in far, far too good a mood: it reminded him of the endorphin-bliss of chasing down suspects, but not quite as intense.

Even more odd was that as he waited for the water to boil, he found himself admiring Sherlock’s form as he bent over the kitchen table, and allowed himself the indulgence of letting his imagination kick in--which was something he _never ever ever under any circumstances_ did unless he was in the safety of his own bedroom with the door locked.

As it was, Sherlock hunched, his palms pressed flat to the table as he examined the first of the three specimens they were able to pinch from Dr. Quercus. Then he frowned and straightened his back as he lifted the specimen to eye-level, studying it closely. Abruptly he sneezed, and his eyes widened: his expression was twisted somewhere between dismay, amusement, and something else John couldn’t quite put a finger on.

“Find anything useful?” John asked, turning and placing his hand at the small of Sherlock’s back as the man resumed his huddle over his microscope. Why are you touching him like this? He thought, but pushed the thought away. It felt familiar, nice.

Sherlock’s body stiffened under his touch, and John broke contact, jerking his hand back an inch or two. Before John could apologize, Sherlock shifted, pushing his spine back against John’s hand.

John’s heart gave a funny flop, and the resulting imbalance in his pulse seemed to go straight to his groin. He licked his lips, unsure of what to do.

“I did,” Sherlock answered after a long, tense moment, his eyes still glued to the microscope. “And I have the feeling we’re about to be in for an incredibly interesting evening.”

John tilted his head, unsure of whether or not he should pull his hand away again. He didn’t want to, certainly not, nor did it seem like Sherlock wanted him to, but this should have been more odd: casual touching was nothing neither he nor his flatmate indulged in, with others or each other.

“How incredibly interesting, exactly?” John made himself ask.

Sherlock turned away from his microscope, back still bent, leaving his face closer to John’s than it normally would have been. Then he straightened, but didn’t distance himself. John could see the swift tic of Sherlock’s pulse in his throat, and when Sherlock swallowed thickly, John was entranced by the way his Adam’s apple bobbed under that smooth, pale skin. He suppressed the urge to lean forward and nibble it, the desire to hear the way Sherlock would suck in a surprised (and hopefully pleased) breath.

_What the hell are you thinking, Watson?_ he asked himself instead.

Sherlock’s mouth quirked, as if unsure of whether he should be thoroughly amused or quite apologetic. “A great deal, I should say,” he murmured to the general vicinity of John’s forehead.

From his periphery, John could see the way Sherlock’s hands fidgeted, the way his hand strayed to John’s bicep. He smoothed the shirt across the muscle there, then caught himself with John’s surprised intake of breath and jerked his hand back, fisting it by his side. John bit his lip, instantly regretting the small reaction that had spooked Sherlock from touching him. The heat that radiated in the space between their bodies was thoroughly distracting, and it took all that John could muster to keep from closing the distance, from pressing himself along Sherlock’s front.

“The--the pollen,” Sherlock interjected, as if it would interrupt him from doing anything stupid. His next word came in a rush: “The hybrid species Dr. Quercus has bred is a cross between a _Pausinytalia yohimbe_ \--more commonly known as the yohimbe, whose bark is used as an aphrodesiac--and the _Ptychopetalum_ \--the more commonly known as “potency wood.” I suspect the pollen this specimen is producing has the unfortunate effect of--”

“Of giving us both a very difficult time of not snogging each other?” The question was out of John’s mouth before his tongue had time to check the statement over with his brain. _Well, it’s out there now,_ he thought _. Can’t take that back for anything_. His mouth stretched in a small, disarming smile.

He felt as well as saw Sherlock’s shuddering exhale. “Yes. That.”

The fact that Sherlock had just acceded to John’s interruption of one of his much-loved explanatory monologues and was effectively rendered speechless by John’s summation made him grin like a fool up at his flatmate.

“So, um.” John was honestly trying to make his brain work, really he was. It just wasn’t. Not with the knowledge that at least his inner turmoil was reciprocated. He swallowed and tried again, laying a tentative hand on Sherlock’s elbow. “So what happens next?” His voice was soft, if hoarse, and his heart had begun a jackhammer beat against his ribcage.

Sherlock pulled his lips into his mouth, biting the insides of them before answering. “I also suspect that--this, erm. Enhanced state. Is. Um. The heart attacks. The victims each died of heart failure, and I have reason to believe it was around the time they--they--”

But John’s fingertips had started sliding along the backside of Sherlock’s upper arm, and he faltered in his speech, his eyes boring straight into John’s.

He took a deep breath, and attempted to finish his sentence, but John wasn’t listening--he was too busy closing the gap between their bodies. John needed to feel the shape of Sherlock’s trim frame against his chest, his stomach, beneath his palms. Sherlock’s sentence came out more as a moan: “--the time they achieved orgasm.”

But John wasn’t focused on his words in the slightest: his entire universe suddenly revolved around the stiff press of Sherlock’s groin against his waist, and Sherlock’s knees buckled just slightly to better align himself against John’s erection.

John hissed, and Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed as John pressed forward, pushing him against the table. He let loose a soft growl, and pressed forward to ghost his lips against Sherlock’s pulse.

And then Sherlock’s fingers were tight in John’s hair, and he pulled John back to press their mouths together. It was harsh and fast, the click of teeth and the bump of noses as each assumed the lead, tongues darting and twining as the they rocked against each other. Distantly John could hear the clink of glass lab equipment, and couldn’t care less if he spoiled an experiment.

“John,” Sherlock groaned into his mouth. “John we must--”

“Don’t stop, Sherlock,” John whimpered, and caught Sherlock’s lower lip between his teeth even as the detective tried to finish his sentence.

“We --god-- have to-- please-- stop, John. It will--hnngh--kill us--”

And finally the message made it through to John’s brain. He leaned back, pulling back to stare at his owl-eyed flatmate.

Sherlock’s pupils were blown wide, his breath coming ragged from his slack lips, and though he’d been the one to make such a dire pronouncement, he looked as though he were a starved man, and John was the only thing on the menu worth considering.

“You’ve got to be joking,” John said, and though he willed his body to pull back, to disentangle itself from his flatmate’s, his hips had a different idea. They rocked against Sherlock’s thigh once more, and John could see how hard Sherlock was working to keep on the right track--he closed his eyes, and the muscles in his jaw worked as he clenched his teeth.

“Not--at all,” Sherlock finally managed.

John swallowed thickly again and blew out a ragged breath. “How long ‘til this is out of our systems?”

“No idea--aren’t you supposed to be the doctor?”

That managed to snap John out of the groove long enough to slouch against the counter behind him, and he dragged his hands down his face with a weary groan. “Right.”

Sherlock pulled himself up off the edge of the table, and turned around to bring his laptop closer. There was a text file pulled up with his notes, and he just gesticulated at them with a distracted wave of his hand. “Here,” he said, and then pushed past John to trudge across the flat and flop on the couch.

John figured it would be much easier than Sherlock trying to explain his findings in their current state, and so he bent down to have a look.

“...Victims each experienced cardiac arrest… pollen likely affected the circulatory system, leading to vastly increased heat rate (and therefore blood flow to sexual organs) and targeted the sexual hormones released in the brain, which also triggered increased heart rate… as the victim likely came closer to orgasm, the erratically high heartbeat (resultant increased blood pressure) effected those likely for heart conditions (arrhythmia, high cholesterol levels, etc) leading to cardiac failure…”

John had seen enough. His heart was still beating erratically, and he could feel the way his body was now vacillating between arousal and anger: warm pressure nestled deep in his abdomen, and a hot whir buzzed behind between his ears. He drew a deep breath, and blew it out slowly, trying to calm himself before speaking.

“So you knowingly exposed us to this--this--pollen, and now if either of us gets off or decides to take a jog, we could die? Is that what you’re telling me?” John clenched his fists, thumbing his knuckles either as a distraction or a warmup for decking his flatmate. He wasn’t sure which, yet.

“That was incidental--I had to collect the pollen samples, and depending on how contained the tree was there was no way of accurately preventing us from being completely pollen-free. If it were contained in an airtight greenhouse, it would be one thing; as it was in the sun room, connected to the rest of the house with in-and-out traffic all evening, everyone was potentially breathing it in.”

Despite his warring body, this bit of information seized John’s attention. “So there are possibly about to be several more deaths, is what you’re saying?”

“Yes, but it’s impossible to tell if the parties were intentional exposure to the pollen, thus either being a stupid accident or a potential M.O. for killing several people at once--albeit in a possibly unlikely, not completely foolproof sort of way--”

“What’s not foolproof about it?” John asked, now forgetting his anger. “Pollen creates allergic reaction, in this case, makes the victim want to shag someone to death--literally, mind you--and then they die when they reach the big finale.”

“Not everyone operates the way you do, John,” Sherlock snapped. “I have absolutely no intention of bringing myself to orgasm.”

John wanted to argue that Sherlock was the odd man out here, and that the majority of consenting adults would probably try their best to work out that arousal in whatever way best suited them--but the image of Sherlock, his carefully arranged nonchalant exterior thoroughly shattered by the need John had seen in his eyes only minutes ago-- _fuck_ , but the words just left John’s head entirely.

And instead, his next words were, “Would you let someone else bring you, then?”

The thrill of what he was suggesting nearly had John panting right then and there. He wanted--no, needed--to watch Sherlock as he came. Sure, Sherlock had just explained why that was a bad idea, but in that moment Sherlock could’ve very well told him the building was on fire, and John still would have wanted to proceed to the bedroom. He huffed a small humming breath, trying to clear his head--but the desire remained too strong.

Sherlock sat up and studied him. He didn’t say yes, but he didn’t say no. The light in the sitting room was still off, and his face was shadowed, merely the glint in his eyes from the light of the kitchen showed that his attention was turned entirely to John; the doctor could feel the weight of that heavy gaze as it flitted across his body.

John suppressed a shudder, and sat down beside him on the sofa. “Should we tell Lestrade, at least try to get the other party-guests into observation, or something?”

Sherlock nodded silently and slipped his hand into his trouser pocket for his mobile. “You text. I’m busy.”

John raised an eyebrow, but by now he knew enough about mind palaces to even bother being annoyed with the request. He took the phone, allowing his fingertips to brush Sherlock’s palm as he accepted the device. Sherlock’s skin was warm, dry, smooth.

And the way Sherlock shivered, at even that slight bit of contact--well.

John directed his attention to the screen and tapped out a text basically outlining the finer points of their discussion, although he saw fit to leave out the part where he and Sherlock were both suffering from the pollen’s effects. No need for Lestrade to submit them to the same embarrassing rounds of idiot questions.

Mission accomplished, he placed Sherlock’s phone on the table. Sherlock’s bare feet were wedged against his thigh, and John settled back into the couch, trying to think of what would best distract him from the pressure of the unyielding fly of his jeans.

He tried staring at the mantel, with the myriad clutter gathered across its shelf, but even the Cluedo board stabbed into the wall there was enough to remind him of the night they’d played, of how later he’d been in his bedroom, stifling a giggle as he came, the image of Sherlock ranting about the game’s faults at once sexy and ridiculous, the way the tendons in his neck had strained beneath that gorgeous pale skin as he gesticulated--

_Right_ , John thought. _Not_ _helping_. So he leaned forward and grabbed the remote, and prayed that crap telly would do the trick.

But then halfway through some period drama re-run that he wasn’t entirely focused on, there were blokes kissing, and _damn it_ couldn’t he even count on turn-of-the-century prudishness for salvation? So he thumbed the power button off, dropped the remote back onto the table.

But in the silence he could hear Sherlock--heavy nasal breaths that sounded for the world like his flatmate was somehow wanking without him having noticed, and John closed his eyes, not daring to look over--

_Sherlock, pressing his feet against my thigh, shifting to get more comfortable, his long fingers pulling down the zip, stroking himself lazily through thin cotton pants, a dark smear of pre-come. How would his voice sound, if he moaned? Deep and rumbling, or high and light and breathy?_

_Sherlock needs it as much as I do--and good god, if this were the one time I were ever able to see him, to touch him… we could stop before it became too dangerous---_

John was surprised to find that he’d opened his eyes, and Sherlock was indeed still in mind-palace mode, his fingers steepled beneath his chin, eyes closed, but the way his trousers tented, the erratic, deep pace of his breath--what exactly was he getting up to in that mind of his?

John trailed tentative fingertips across the top of one of Sherlock’s socked feet, which drew a small intake of breath from him, and so John risked skating them up further, beneath the hem of his trouser-leg, where he found the soft bristle of leg hair--

The skin-to-skin contact, as minimal as it should have been, felt electric, and all John could think of was how that same body hair might look, feel, taste, if indeed Sherlock had a trail leading downward from his navel--

“John,” Sherlock whispered. “You know we shouldn’t--”

“We could get close,” John found himself murmuring. “I could bring you so close--just, not all the way--”

He opened his eyes to Sherlock wearing one of the most vulnerable, torn expressions he’d ever seen the man wear. Sherlock’s eyes were bright with desire, and when that gaze leveled at John, he felt pinned to the couch, his needs laid bare. Heat pulsed in his groin, the brilliant edge to his arousal spiking through him. John shifted in his seat, slouching down further in a futile attempt to relieve the tightness of his jeans, or find friction--he wasn’t sure which.

“It will kill us, John.” Sherlock spoke with the same soft, desperate rumble, and John found it harder to concentrate on his words when all he could think of was that same deep voice rumbling against his ear, his neck, all the dirty things he’d love to hear but could never really imagine Sherlock saying--

“Everyone dies sometime.” John’s voice was strained, and the way Sherlock’s eyes fluttered spoke volumes to him: even this weak, faulty logic was enough to test the limits of Sherlock’s control.

“But saying we did survive--” and now Sherlock picked up one foot, and stroked it along John’s thigh, “there’s always the morning after. Could you still tolerate our arrangement, knowing what happened tonight?”

Even in the lust-haze fogging John’s brain, this question rattled around, pinging against answers Sherlock wasn’t even seeking.

_He’s afraid tomorrow I’ll feel differently,_ he realized with some measure of lightning-strike clarity. _Does he really not know?_

“It’s nothing I haven’t considered before,” he answered, when what he meant was, _How often have I been alone in my bed, praying you don’t observe?_

The subtext there was plain, though, and he knew Sherlock was reading it loud and clear.

“When this wears off--” John started again, but how did one phrase _I’d take you any way you’d have me_ with some measure of dignity? Especially with Sherlock’s big toe tracing across John’s other thigh, with the arch of his foot brushing against John’s cock in what was probably the most heinous of torture methods since the bloody Inquisition?

John fought to keep his hands from pressing down on Sherlock’s foot, from rocking up against even this small offering.

“You didn’t have nearly the same exposure I did to the pollen,” Sherlock said. _God damn it_ was this man aware of the dark-chocolate quality of his voice? “Yours will wear off faster than mine…”

John whimpered, and dignity bedamned, he croaked, “I’ll still want you. I’ll always want you--”

His voice failed him midsentence, his hips bucking up against Sherlock’s foot against his will, his heart hammering with his admission, the rush of too much blood and not enough oxygen enough to nearly make him see stars.

John Watson may not have been a man with a foot fetish, but damn it the only thing he could think of just then was pressing against that foot in his lap until he came or his heart exploded, and either way it felt amazing.

“Oh,” Sherlock moaned softly, pressing his foot firmly across the bulge of John’s cock then, as if he knew how close John was to just feverishly dry-humping the arch of his foot, “oh, if only--”

But then that pressure was gone: Sherlock jerked his feet back off of John, bolting upright. John saw his eyes open wide, and a spike of fear shot through John’s chest.

“Sherlock? God, are you okay--?”

“Oh!” Sherlock repeated himself. “We are idiots, John! Perfectly dimwitted!”

And when John looked to him in a bewildered muddle of arousal, alarm, and confusion, Sherlock’s face was alight with _Eureka!_ and a triumphant grin stretching his lips. Sherlock tumbled off the sofa and stood quickly. The way he wobbled on his feet was mildly alarming, but before John could ask,  Sherlock shuffled into his shoes, grabbed his coat, and yanked open their door with little more than a, “Be back soon!” before darting out the door.

His heavy footfalls down those seventeen steps had never sounded so much like a hastily beaten retreat.

John groaned loud and long then, and tried to kill himself by banging his head on the back of the sofa. Needless to say, it was an utterly fruitless endeavor.

 

 

A quarter-hour later, John was in the middle of stewing in a heap of arousal and rejection without any practical method of solving either when the street-level door opened and closed quickly with a sharp bang. Sherlock’s feet on the stairs thudded quickly, as if he were taking them two at a time. Then he burst into their sitting room with a victorious air and tossed a small bag to John as he crossed to the kitchen.

John stared in bewilderment as Sherlock rummaged in the cupboard, retrieved two glass tumblers, and filled them both with water from the tap with all of the impatience of a man escaping a swarm of bees.

“Did you run all the way there?” John asked. “What about the accelerated heart rate--?”

“I am a recovering cocaine addict, John,” Sherlock nearly sang as he crossed back across the room with a flourish. “I’m accustomed to my heart beating like this, moreso than you might be.”

John didn’t even want to touch that bit of logic with a ten-foot pole, so instead he asked, “What did you get?”

Sherlock placed both glasses of water on the low coffee table, snatched the bag from John’s lap, and produced a small box of over-the-counter antihistamines with a flourish.

“Pollen. Anti--of course.” John groaned and sank back down into the sofa, fighting the urge to smack his forehead.

“Don’t beat yourself up, John. I’m not surprised it took either of us so long--this pollen was incredibly potent.” Sherlock ripped into the box and produced two foil-lined tablet sheets, and dropped the box carelessly on the table. He flipped one sheet over, studying the information printed on the foil side. “You may be a doctor, but you’re a man with needs, first. Now, I’m sure that if we both just shock our systems with cetirizine hydrochloride, it may knock us out for a bit, but then we should both be in the clear and then we could--” but here he stopped himself, as if biting off his thoughts. He smoothed his features back into stony arrogance, but John could see the excitement and the pollen-induced mania still fighting for purchase.

“We could--?” John prompted, holding out his hand. Sherlock handed him a sheet, and John made damn sure to let his fingertips graze his flatmate’s inner wrist, the  blade and heel of his palm before drawing the medication away.

The way Sherlock’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat should not have been nearly as distracting as it was, but at this point, John was content to blame it all on the pollen and take what he could get. But then Sherlock answered, “We could carry on as usual.”

“As usual before we huffed a heavy dose of judgement-impairing pollen?” John asked. He stared down at the little pills, genuinely torn about how he wanted his mad, brilliant flatmate to answer that question.

Sherlock hummed noncommitally, and John could feel the weight of one full-scale deductive gaze settling on his skin, his jumper, the bulge still pressing painfully against his jeans.

He let his eyes unfocus, his attention sliding to his periphery though his eyes stayed fixed on the foil packet. He could see Sherlock, a blurry black stretch of suit to his left.

He cleared his throat. “You should probably take two, Sherlock, and we’ll monitor your progress. Drink a full glass of water with it, and go get ready for bed.” He knew he wouldn’t have to explain that despite its classification as a second-generation antihistamine, it could still make him drowsy as they were exceeding the recommended dosage. He didn’t need to explain exactly why they were having to take more than the recommendation, to begin with. But he wanted to, just to have something to occupy the awkward silence that the pleasure-centers of his brain begged just to fill with confessions and needy, harried groping.

Instead he pushed two tablets through the foil, swallowed them dry, and then reached for his water and drained the glass in one long pull. He lifted his eyes to Sherlock then, and he knew his internal struggle was painted plainly in his features. He rose, gave a half-hearted smile, and turned to trudge upstairs to his room.

“Good night, John,” he heard Sherlock say, though only barely.

 

_Sherlock smiled: it was that rare, boyish smile that put John in mind of a shy adolescent accidentally making eye contact from across the cafeteria. His eyes were hooded but hopeful, the corners of his mouth pulling only slightly before settling back into place. He had just asked a question, one John had yet to answer._

_Behind him, the dim room and the ambient London-light filtered in through the blinds, haloing Sherlock’s tangle of curls in cold light as the still-present fairy-lights from the mantel cast the angle of his brow, cheek, and neck in soft warm glow. John felt himself nod slowly, then turn to inspect the kitchen from his seat beside Sherlock on the sofa._

_He wanted to fuss about the state of the refrigerator, the mess on the table, the abysmal state of their pantry, but he didn’t want to do it just yet--if he complained now, even though it needed doing, he would upset Sherlock. It would certainly erase that small smile, John’s favorite, and John wasn’t ready for that just yet._

_He heard the whisper of his name, like a half-forgotten memory, and he realized he’d been staring at that spot in the kitchen for too long. When he turned back to Sherlock, his flatmate was still in the same position right there on the couch, as if no time had passed at all--but where he’d been wearing his dressing gown, tee shirt, and pyjama pants, he was now completely nude. His features were arranged calmly, as if he were unaware or unconcerned with his de-robed state. John tried hard to remember if he had been that way, but the blur between the image of the dressing gown and bare shoulders clothed only in dim yellow and white light just wouldn’t resolve itself in either direction into a solid memory._

_Sherlock looked down, as if only noticing his nakedness for the first time in the same manner one might undress for a shower--matter of fact, comfortable. Then he reached to touch John’s shoulder, and John was surprised to look down to find himself in much the same state._

_John tried to ask where his clothes were, if he’d been nude this whole time, but he couldn’t hear himself saying the words, couldn’t feel his mouth working to ask. Sherlock smiled at him just the same, as if to say, We’ve always been this way, John. But his mouth didn’t move, and John heard nothing. Sherlock raised his eyebrows, as if asking to continue, and John nodded. Of course he wanted to continue._

_Long pale fingers traced down the line of his bicep, not so much touching as leaving behind a trail of radiated warmth, and John felt himself shiver, at once hot and cold. He wanted to touch, he needed to reciprocate, but his body would not move. John was paralyzed, though Sherlock didn’t seem to mind._

_When Sherlock leaned forward to kiss him, John could see his flatmate’s features pressed close, could smell the faint chemical tang and expensive shampoo that always smelled like Sherlock. His lips were soft, warm, and this one small act of intimacy held more vulnerability than John had ever seen Sherlock exhibit. When he felt the firm hold of Sherlock’s hand on his jaw, he wished desperately that he could press forward, eager to prove his enthusiasm ._

_They stayed that way for what at once felt like hours and seconds; need pooled low in his stomach, ebbed and throbbed, building base-camp in his groin in a way he was certain his ever-observant flatmate would notice. But still John could do nothing--he couldn’t work his lips, his jaw, his tongue, though he knew Sherlock was certainly snogging him now; he couldn’t card his fingers through Sherlock’s wild hair, nor shift his weight to pull the lanky man onto him, stretch them out on the couch the way he wished he could._

_And still, Sherlock went on, as though John were not a statue, trailing his lips from the corner of John’s mouth to his ear, to his neck, to the scar marring his shoulder; he pushed until John fell back against the scratchy, overstuffed Union Jack pillow, and worked his way down across the planes of John’s chest, his ribs. John saw Sherlock’s tongue dart out, pink and quick, to flick his nipple, and the flare of arousal had John whimpering, he was certain of it._

_Sherlock pressed further, and John lay helpless with want and paralysis as he watched the top of Sherlock’s dark thatch of hair as it ventured lower. Sherlock’s mouth on his hipbone was a fact that his brain couldn’t interpret. It was just too much sensation and impossibility to process, as was Sherlock’s mouth on his thigh, on the tendon that raised taut when John’s leg fell open._

_When Sherlock glanced upward, pinning John in place, and licked a long, solid swath from the base of John’s cock to the tip, John panicked._ Too much, no, Christ, no, it’s too much, _John thought._ God, it can’t end like this, he’ll never--

_And then John came, his cry silent in his throat as he twitched and jerked, unable to stop the progressive shockwaves that tore through him, and to John’s horror he could only stare at Sherlock, who rolled his eyes in disappointment._

_Finally, finally, John’s hand drew up to clamp over his eyes, shame and arousal warring within._ Just go to sleep _, John prayed, and then the darkness overtook him._

_**** _

When John awoke, it was late morning and the sun invaded his room with cold winter light. He shifted and felt the cold sticky mess his sheets had become in the night. John groaned with mild frustration, scrubbing his palm across his face as he drew the sheet and duvet off of him. And then logic caught up with him: he had climaxed while he slept.

He’d had an orgasm.

An orgasm that didn’t kill him.

John couldn’t help but grin with relief, all discomfort forgotten. Then his phone buzzed from his nightstand, and he reached across to retrieve it. He had received a text message:

_From the sounds coming from your room, I take it you have recovered in much the same fashion I did. I have tea and toast ready, and would like to discuss with you the data we collected last night. I am also curious as to how much of our conversation you remember.--SH_

This had John chuckling to himself. From Sherlock this was as good as, “Did you mean the things you said last night? Check yes or no.” 

_Be down in a minute. --JW_  

He felt a small thrill of anticipation, and hoped very much it had nothing to do with the lingering effects of the pollen. Or rather, that it had everything to do with them, with none of the pesky side-effects.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I really enjoy making friends with strangers on the internet. Come by and say hi!
> 
>   * [**My Fandom Tumblr**](http://chucksauce.tumblr.com) for all manner of crying about fictional characters and laughing at shitposts
>   * **[My Fic Rec Blog](http://spoilersauce.tumblr.com)** , if you're into multifandom recs.
>   * **[Under-London](http://under-london.com/)** , the original serialized novel I'm working on for cheap-as-free!
>   * **[My Twitter](http://twitter.com/chucksauce221)** , where I basically live when I'm not writing...
> 



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